Chapter Sixty
Dogs and Daffodils
0o0
Summer truly arrived over the next two days, ushering in the first scaldingly hot and vaporous dawn of the year. Tangled up in her bedsheets, Astoria rolled over and batted her groggy eyes at the sweltering mid-day sun, wishing she had thought to pull her curtains. Slanting beams of light crept across her pillows like hot fingers, conjuring up a thundering haze of brightness.
Damp with sweat and positively panting for a breeze, Astoria got up and shuffled across the floor to crack open the attic windows. At the first whisper of a draft, she combed her fingers through her tousled hair and tried to guess what time it was.
Astoria had done almost nothing but sleep since arriving at Belladonna's. Ensconced in a fort of pillows, she had paid no notice to the improving weather for almost forty eight hours.
Already, she could sense a vast improvement in her mood, as though a pressure had been released from her chest by means of a secret vent while she slumbered. Covered in a damp sheen and looking positively bedraggled, it was still the best that she had felt in ages.
Blundering about her bathroom in a rosy haze, Astoria made quick work of bathing and dressing herself. Outside, the balmy heat continued to work its magic. Floating up toward the roof on tufts of gentle scent from the gardens, the air seemed to caress her skin; an invisible wardrobe of sensation that only she could see or feel. Shimmying into a white sundress without resenting the color—a first since joining the Sisters of the Eastern Star—she brushed out her hair and left her face bare.
Breakfast was already laid out in the dining room when Astoria reached the first floor. Tea and a silver coffee service had been produced, as had two or three trays of various muffins and fruit salads. Feeling that this was eating a bit rich for her aunt, who did not typically take a meal before luncheon, Astoria seized a china cup and filled it to the brim.
Perhaps Belladonna had misinterpreted Astoria's dedication to bed-rest as a sign of depression? If so, the attempt to lure her downstairs with food was appreciated.
Sampling the coffee, Astoria chose a plum that she liked the look of and ambled off to collect her mail from the table in the hall.
There was more post than she had been expecting: at least half a dozen letters lay waiting for her, all addressed by hand. Assuming that most of them had been penned by Theodore—no doubt reprimanding her for spying on him during the train ride home—Astoria tucked the stack under her arm and continued toward the sitting room, which had the best natural light in the morning.
"Darling, you're awake!" cried Belladonna, giving the extreme impression of a frightful sixth sense as she materialized near the bottom of the stairs. "How grand!"
Suspecting that Bonky had tipped her off, Astoria took a bite out of her plum and surveyed Belladonna's face. It was clear that her aunt was delighted to find Astoria dressed and conscious, which meant that she was probably also eager for a word.
"Morning, Auntie!" Astoria slurred through a mouthful of fruity juice.
"Afternoon, really," Belladonna corrected, signaling for Bonky to fetch her a cup as well. "But, as you've been sleeping for days, I suppose it's hard for you to tell the difference."
Normally, this might have provoked Astoria into saying something sharp, but she was in far too good a mood to allow weak criticism to bother her very much.
"Have Bonky bring the fruit with him," Astoria murmured, subtly licking her fingers. "It's incredible."
"Almost chipper, too," observed Belladonna wryly. "Don't you know its faintly un-patriotic to be so lively before noon? Or have the foreigners been rubbing off on you?"
Astoria dismissed this for what it truly was—the patently ridiculous—and snagged a pear from Bonky's bowl before he could refuse to serve it to her.
"You seem to be in a good mood yourself," Astoria noted. "What is it? What's happened? You can't be on about the scandal at the Third Task?"
"No, but I expect to know more about that later," Belladonna confessed, accepting a cup and saucer from Bonky. "Actually, I was thinking of how masterfully you seem to have handled your father. He's been writing to me for days—the most delightfully condescending letters, too! Nattering on about how starved you are for a proper holiday and how he—gallant hero that his is—intends to sweep in and save you."
"Oh," Astoria remarked foolishly. "Is that all?"
"Quite," Belladonna purred, looking like the cat who got the cream as she stirred sugar into her tea. "Of course, he wants to claim you as soon as this Thursday, but I've put him off until the weekend..."
"What?" Astoria choked. She had just gotten used to sleeping in and lounging about undisturbed. The idea that she should be cut off from all relaxation before she was really and truly ready was a sobering thought indeed.
"Mhmm," confirmed Belladonna. "Everyone is jumping ship this season—your father is no exception. He's sewed himself into Malfoy's pocket, only no one wants their gold in Diagon Alley at the moment. Not given the current—" Belladonna searched for the right wording, "—social climate."
"Climate of fear, you mean?" demanded Astoria bitterly. "Why should the Malfoys care? The papers aren't reporting anything about He Who Must Not Be Named yet. Even if they were, wouldn't all the old Death Eaters be happy about it?"
"Politically, perhaps," measured Belladonna carefully, "but I shouldn't think financially. Reform has a tendency to arrive on the wings of war, darling, and war is not often kind to fair fortune."
"What's that supposed to mean?" returned Astoria, discomfort lending her tone a twinge of hostility.
"It means that certain people—people in the know—are scrambling to tie up their assets overseas before the path of violence leaves the shops barren," snorted Belladonna. "It was the same last time. If Cornelius Fudge had half the mind he thinks he's got, he might take a look around and notice that all of his popular clubs and supper parlors have suspicious vacancies through labor day."
Astoria mulled this over thoughtfully, unable to overlook the implication that—trivial though it was—Mr. Malfoy's increased presence on the continent significantly raised his son's chances of seeking out Maudlin before the summer was over.
"What about Draco's father's plans for the knotgrass?" pressed Astoria, immediately wishing that she had just said 'Lucius'. "Does this mean he'll leave you be now?"
"Oh, I doubt it," sighed Belladonna, curiously unfazed by the prospect. "Although I suppose it does mean that Malfoy will be looking for his investors as far away from London as possible."
"Is that why father is going to France?" demanded Astoria, beginning to see things with an aggrieved sense of clarity.
"Perhaps it wasn't before," admitted Belladonna, "but I suspect it is now. Which, I'm sorry to say, may put you right in the thick of things, darling."
"Why can't they just find another lake?" snapped Astoria, curiously resentful of her father's toadying. "Why does dad have to be so aggravating? I haven't lived with him since I was ten—surely he saved a penny on that! Is he really so greedy that he has to start to locking up his own family members?"
"It would seem so," returned Belladonna, smiling wanly. "Of course, it wouldn't entirely surprise me if Lucius chose that particular loch on purpose just to get my goat, so I suppose we mustn't blame the whole on George."
"Auntie—" Astoria hesitated, narrowing her eyes in the direction of Belladonna's lovely face, "—why does Lucius dislike you so much?"
Belladonna cleared her throat and ignored this.
"Of course, I've made your excuses for lingering in the country a little longer, Astoria. The Rowles are having a farewell tea for Cassandra on Saturday. I thought we might look in on it."
"Why?" Astoria exclaimed, loathe to be shunted into her father's care and forced to endure a Rowle tea party in the same week.
"Because we need a reason to put off your traveling plans and the occasion suits our purpose brilliantly," returned Belladonna, her tone officially clipped. "And because, to be quite frank, I think it right that we should attend. Especially now that Cassandra is of age and must give up her presidency for your chapter of the Sisterhood."
Appalled, Astoria opened her mouth to protest but Belladonna's eyes flashed warningly, halting her verbal explosion before it could detonate.
"Of course, I know you don't want the position," Belladonna clarified, "but I do not think it would be unwise for you to see her again before she vanishes from the country altogether."
"You don't?" Astoria challenged incredulously. "I certainly do."
"Really, Astoria!" sighed Belladonna impatiently. "We haven't gone anywhere together in ages. Would it kill you to take a stroll through someone's garden with me?"
"You were at the Third Task!" Astoria blubbered, eager for Belladonna to see the inherent madness of her own plan. "That was less than a month ago—and it was your idea for me to play the doting daughter! Isn't my father supposed to think we loathe each other?"
"I wouldn't say loathe," Belladonna countered evasively, flattening the trim of her dress. "In any case, we have to go now—unless you would prefer for George to come crashing in to collect you tomorrow?"
"Alright, then!" Astoria let out an irritable breath but said nothing more, conceding to the prospect of tea if only to prevent herself from being removed from the country by force before she had time to pack. "But it's on your head. Cassandra's an unbearable hag. She won't be subtle on that score if she has to see me over a holiday."
"Oh, of course she hates you," sniffed Belladonna dismissively. "You have a mysterious claim over her beloved. What else can she do other than properly detest you?"
"Roland, you mean?" Astoria snorted. "I wouldn't say I've got any mysterious claims on that front."
"But of course you do," Belladonna tutted. "An inheritance is an inheritance, Astoria, and it has to go to one of you. You're a fool if you think Alistair and his weasel-son don't remember that often enough."
"Are you admitting that you have something in common with the Yaxleys?" Astoria smirked.
Suspecting that Belladonna would run long, Astoria turned her attention toward her letters.
"Even a broken clock is bound to be right twice a day," Belladonna sniffed, her cup pausing tremulously at her lips. "For all his faults, Alistair is not stupid, which means that you are doing yourself no favors by continuing your spat with Cassandra Rowle. It's entirely possible that she may be of use to you someday."
"Pot calling the kettle black," Astoria murmured, frowning distractedly in the direction of her post. To her fearful surprise, every single letter, bar none, was addressed from Fred Weasley.
"What ever do you mean by that?" demanded Belladonna.
"Only that you've been feuding with Seraphina Zabini since your school days," returned Astoria, doing her best to hide the flash of dread that Fred's hasty handwriting had just provoked. What could have happened to merit Fred writing six letters in two days time?
"That's different," Belladonna sniffed. "I've never needed anything from Seraphina—and if I ever did, I've long since found a way around it. Your future is still very unsettled. Why you would give up a potentially powerful chess-piece in a game you have no assurances of winning is beyond me."
Astoria tore open the oldest of Fred's letters, post-marked on the Saturday that she had arrived home.
Astoria,
I hope you get this tonight. We've heard from Ragnuk. You, George and I need to pick a meeting place and have chat as soon as possible. It's not necessarily as bad as it sounds—but there's a clock ticking. Write back the the moment you can and give me an address. We'll come to you.
Fred
Alarmed by the edginess in the first of his six letters, Astoria slit open the next envelope and then the next, unsurprised to find that his messages grew steadily shorter and more dire as they progressed. Tearing into the final note—posted earlier that very morning—Astoria found a piece of parchment that bore no signature and only a single, dramatic sentence:
Respond or I'm coming to find you.
Officially flustered on two fronts, Astoria dropped the note into her lap and took a hard gulp of coffee.
Fred's insistence that she pick the meeting place was problematic. Astoria did not have the daring (or the intestinal fortitude) to arrange a meeting with the Weasley's under Belladonna's roof. Nor could Astoria ask her friends to pop by her father's house—at least, not without drawing a suspicious level of notice from Daphne and Beatrice.
Where then? The Leaky Cauldron? People seemed to use that pub as a meeting place often enough...
"I'm going out for a bit," Astoria declared, gathering up the debris of her letters.
"I'm relived to hear it," returned Belladonna slyly. "I was beginning to fear that you were aspiring to become a shut-in."
Astoria resisted the temptation to roll her eyes, trying to focus on the problem at hand.
Fred would just have to wait another hour or two for her to come up with a plan, that was all. There was nothing else for it. She was leaving the country in less than a week; her first course of action should be to check in with Theodore. The longer she waited to settle her score with him, the more likely he was to fall under Padma's sway. With any luck, by the time Astoria returned home, she'd have come up with a brilliant plan to see the twins in private and all would be well again...
"I won't be gone long," Astoria called over her shoulder.
"Take as much time as you like," Belladonna returned. "I'm expected at the ladies auxiliary meeting for Saint Mungo's this afternoon. After that, I may stop over in London for a bit. Do you have a pair of smart gloves for Saturday?"
"Smart gloves?" Astoria repeated mistrustfully, flashing irresistibly back to the time that Cassandra Rowle had tricked Astoria into attending her pinning ceremony in a victorian dress. "No. Why?"
"I'll stop by Gladrags, then," Belladonna murmured, amending her mental to-do list to accommodate a suddenly pressing need for Dickensian formalwear.
"If Cassandra's made it sound as though I'll need gloves, you can leave off buying a pair," Astoria cautioned stoutly. "I've had my fill of that little C-U-Next-Teatime tricking me into marching over to her grandmother's townhouse dressed like a bloody Bennet!"
"Hmm?" returned Belladonna distractedly. "Oh, don't be ridiculous, darling. No one's still in London this time of year. They'll have the party at their estate in Dorset."
This was nowhere near enough reassurance to satisfy Astoria's suspicions, but the matter of appropriate hand-wear seemed like a trivial reason to start an argument. Gloves, after all, were very easy to remove if it came to it—even in public. Cassandra would not manage to fool her twice.
Backtracking all the way up to her room to dispose of Fred's letters in a more private rubbish bin, Astoria hunted for shoes and then turned her feet toward the storeroom fireplace.
The fact that her aunt would probably be gone all afternoon poked at her subconscious as she tossed floo powder into the grate. There was great, if dangerous, potential in this.
If Astoria was really gutsy, she might manage to sneak Fred and George into the house without her aunt ever being the wiser... but Bonky would surely give her away for trying, wouldn't he? Lost in thought, Astoria stepped into the grate. The swirl-spark of flame promptly abandoned her to the cold, dusty silence of the Notts' front hall.
Brushing off soot, Astoria moved out of the fireplace just in time to receive a terrible shock.
BANG!
The door to Mr. Nott's office flew open, shuddering from the force of a violent round-house kick.
"Ta-ra-ra-BOOM-de-ay!" sang Mr. Nott gleefully, coercing his long, thin legs into a weird little dance. "Ta-ra-ra—"
He froze mid-jig as he caught sight of Astoria. Unable to think of anything sharper to do, Astoria stared back at him in naked shock.
"He's outside," grunted Mr. Nott, mercifully deciding not to take Astoria to task for lingering in his hallway unannounced. "In the garden."
"Thank you," she squeaked, scampering out of the way. Astoria charged down the front steps, trying not to laugh when she heard Mr. Nott recommence his tune on the upstairs landing.
Outside, the lawn was as perfectly green as a fairy-tale illustration.
Still chortling, Astoria studied the surrounding luster. Here and there, budding, yellow daffodils poked up hopeful heads through the long grass. Remnants of a once greater garden that somebody else—for presumably Mr. Nott did not see to his grounds—had carefully planted in better times.
Theodore's mother, Astoria's mind whispered, coming to its own conclusion without any proof or assistance. A safe guess, however. When it came to the origin of any detail that went unremarked upon in the Notts' home, the ghost of Mrs. Nott was almost always to blame.
Certain that Theodore would be lingering near the sunken garden as per-usual, Astoria quickly beat her way around the wild outcropping of rhododendrons and gained the pebbly, roughshod track. On a chipped metal bench up ahead, she soon spotted Theodore with a book. Half-hidden in the shadows of a scraggly lilac bush, he did not notice Astoria until she was nearly upon him.
"Oh!" he jolted, looking relived and exhilarated at once. He dropped his novel. "I didn't know you were coming over!"
"I've never needed an excuse to stop by before," countered Astoria uncomfortably, unable to shake the impression that Theodore appeared tightly-strung. Was he annoyed that she had dropped in? Or was he simply concerned that his father was practicing to perform on the stage?
"Of course not," Theo backtracked soothingly, moving over to make room for her.
Astoria hesitated for a fraction of a second. Theodore's smile was so encouraging, however, that she soon gave in and perched on the rusty metal arm of his seat.
"I thought you might have written to me by now," Astoria needled. "I've been sleeping all weekend, but I would have gotten up for you."
Even to her own ears, Astoria knew that she sounded a bit like an ignored relative, an awareness that only served to re-conjure Padma's rant. Tracey's words assaulted her memory: What was that bit she said about you being Theodore's mommy?
"It's only been two days," frowned Theodore. "I didn't really think—"
"No, of course not," Astoria grumbled, kicking out at the crumbling rock wall. "Force of habit, I guess. Whenever someone else goes silent, it's usually because they're fomenting treachery."
Theodore chuckled.
"Although, if I was waiting for a letter, it was probably because I thought you were put out with me," Astoria went on, glancing furtively at Theo's face.
Theodore's fingers tightened on his book. "Why?" he muttered hesitantly, pinching a dog-ear into the top of his page with unnecessary precision.
"Tracey and I were pretty annoying on the train," hinted Astoria. "It must have looked like we were spying on you..."
"Oh. Right. That." Theodore let out a hollow laugh, his expression tense but resigned. "I mean, I'm not mad. You couldn't help where you were walking—I should have come to find you earlier, anyway..."
Astoria held her breath, watching her half-planned hopes to complain about Padma's un-likability go up in smoke.
The idea of making Theodore cringe or feel responsible for Padma's bad-mouthing was uncomfortable enough. To do so when he obviously already felt guilty was unconscionable.
She had no right to, anyway, Astoria reminded herself—not when so many of her own friends were guilty of the same sort of slander. After all, what did Draco love more than a chance to make fun of Theodore? Even Fed and George had been know to make a rude comment from time to time. Theodore had never held her accountable for their loud mouths...
"Padma's certainly full of opinions," Astoria pointed out, allowing herself this one, weak observation.
"Well, she's in Ravenclaw," argued Theodore half-heartedly. "She sounds sharp from time to time, but she doesn't really mean anything by it..."
"I've known Slytherins with less bite," Astoria pointed out.
"Yeah," Theo conceded, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's probably true—she wasn't in a very good mood on the train. How much did you hear, anyway?"
"Enough to know she doesn't like me very much," returned Astoria evenly. "But then, I suppose she doesn't really have to."
"That's an exaggeration," scoffed Theodore, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of Astoria and Padma being at odds. "We haven't been friends very long—I probably talk about you too much."
"So what!" Astoria burst, aggravated by the illogic of this reasoning. "I've known Padma since we were kids—I mean, not well, but I saw her often enough. I don't know where she gets off making me sound like such a cow!"
"Oh, yeah," recalled Theo absently, furrowing his brow. "That's right, isn't it? She told me you weren't very nice to her as kids..."
"What?" Astoria snapped, properly incredulous now.
"Yeah," Theo pressed, sounding more certain. "She said that you and her sister used to run off and leave her behind."
"I—" Ridiculous! Astoria bit her lip and rubbed her knee, smothering a surge of inner violence. "Are you dating Padma, then?"
"No," Theodore huffed, just visibly flustered, "but aren't I allowed to have my own friends? Or am I to check with you first?"
"You're allowed to have friends, Theo," Astoria breathed, privately relived to hear that he was not Padma's boyfriend, even if she was a little ashamed to admit it to herself. "Only, it's just..."
"What?" Theodore groused.
"You don't think it's just a little strange that she can't stand anyone you hang around with?" Astoria laid out carefully, afraid of coming across as bitter. "Your female friends, especially?"
"I dunno," Theo mumbled, jerking his shoulders upward with a vulnerable little twitch. "Do you think it's odd?"
Astoria hesitated, unsure how to respond. Truthfully, she did not think that Padma's unnecessary sass was very likable. Then again, Astoria's opinion on the matter was almost certainly biased: Padma had essentially gotten away with ripping Astoria to pieces without ever having to pluck up the courage to say a word to her face. It was hard not to resent her for it.
"I'm not sure," Astoria finally admitted. "Not especially odd, I suppose. Then again, people love to tell me that I'm a controlling, stuck-up little brat, so maybe I don't have a leg to stand on."
"You're not like that," declared Theodore loyally, immediately dismissing the idea of Astoria's rudeness. "You're observant...and diligent. There's a difference. Padma would come around if she knew you better."
Astoria smiled sadly in the direction of the grass. She was sure that Theodore was somewhat wrong about this, but the vote of confidence was incredibly heartening anyway. So much so that, in the grand scheme of things, Astoria supposed she was prepared to forget about Padma. There were probably less than five people in the world who thought Astoria's personality left nothing to be desired, and Theodore was one of them.
"I caught your father dancing in the hall," Astoria smirked, deftly switching subjects before she could say anything to cause Theodore further distress.
"I figured you might've," admitted Theo, eyelashes fluttering with annoyance. "He's been at it all morning, playing that circus-ey vaudeville shite on the phonograph..."
"What's got him so giddy? The whiff of upheaval?" Astoria wondered, privately certain that Mr. Nott was capable of deriving pleasure from chaos.
"No," snorted Theodore, turning his scathing gaze heavenward. "He's finally got a special permit for that Augurey hunt he was so mad about."
Astoria's eyes shot back toward he house, swimming with amusement. Theodore's lips thinned, but it wasn't long before he let out a cough-like snicker of his own.
0o0
Astoria did not stay much longer. It was clear that Theodore might have preferred her company over his book, but Astoria could not seem keep her mind from wandering back to the twins. By the time the sun was fully above their heads, her sense of worry had become so pressing that she could no longer sit still.
"You're not leaving until next week?" repeated Theodore, double checking her itinerary as he walked her back up the path to the house.
"My father is coming for me on Sunday," Astoria answered, shivering as she re-adjusted to the chilly hall. "You'll visit first, wont you?"
"When do you get back?" asked Theodore, preparing to keep her prison tally.
"I don't know," Astoria admitted. "August probably."
"August?" yelped Theodore, yanking the pot of floo powder he had been extending out reach again. "You're leaving for a month?"
"I think so, but Belladonna seems to think dad will be busy," insisted Astoria, intentionally doing her part not to remind Theodore of George's recent business arrangement with Lucius. "Best guess says that I'll be staying almost exclusively with the Mendels, in which case you can expect me back soon enough. Lord knows I don't have the patience for four straight weeks of Maudlin."
"Who does?" grumbled Theodore darkly, relinquishing the floo-powder.
Astoria laughed and plucked a stray piece of lint from his shirt. "Visit me!" she called one last time before stepping into the flames.
Belladonna's front hall surged back up to meet her, echoing with the foreign sounds an unexplained commotion.
Immediately assuming the offensive—for even when her aunt was home, outright skirmishes here were rare—Astoria swiveled toward the doors that led to the formal living room.
Half-shuttered, someone was kicking up a hotheaded fuss inside; Astoria could see their shadow pacing back and forth.
"You is not to be here when the mistress is out!" roared Bonky's voice, chasing the intruder around one of the couches. "You is NOT, YOU IS NOT!"
The was a rustle, a clunk and then—most ponderous of all—the sound of dog barking. Astoria shot across the entryway just in time to hear Fred yelp before barging in.
Inside the living room, George was sitting on one of Belladonna's dark-red couches, hands clasped nervously in his lap. At his feet, a great black dog had fallen into a growling crouch to defend Fred, who was standing in front of the patio doors with one hand pressed against his forehead, presumably because he had been struck there by a blunt object.
Astoria directed her eyes toward the carpet and located Bonky, clutching a suspiciously heavy looking paperweight and positively frothing.
"What's going on?" demanded Astoria, as put-out as she was flabbergasted.
"They is not to be visiting while the mistress is out!" screeched Bonky, gesticulating with the paperweight. "I is telling them to leave, but they is not going!"
"That's enough, Bonky!" Astoria snapped, putting two and two together well enough to surmise that Fred had been assaulted for his refusal to call again later. "Put that back where it belongs and get out!"
Bonky shot Astoria a mutinous look but did as she said, resentfully returning the paperweight to an end-table before shuffling out into the hall.
"Close the door behind you!" Astoria hollered after him, not wishing to be overheard.
"Bloody hell!" swore Fred, testing his face gingerly. A bump the size of a quail egg was already beginning to swell up near his hairline. "I always wondered what it would be like to own a house-elf. Thank God dad is poor—"
"Fred!" Astoria hissed. "What are you doing here?"
"I told you I was going to find you, didn't I?" demanded Fred. "Why haven't you been responding to any of my letters?"
"I was sleeping!" Astoria exclaimed, alive to the fresh wonder of Fred's presence in Belladonna's favorite lounging area. "I only checked the mail this morning!"
"What, did you get the vapors?" snorted Fred incredulously. "How many people can sleep for two whole days straight?"
"Alright, alright!" Astoria grinned. "Just sit down! Do you want ice for your head?"
Now that the twins had seen Bonky (or rather, he had seen them), there could be no hiding their visit from Belladonna. If they were already here, Astoria could see no reason why she shouldn't make the best of it.
"Not if that thing has to come back to serve it!" scoffed Fred, sinking down onto the sofa beside his brother. "One more wallop and I might pass out..."
"And serve him right, it would!" muttered Bonky from his hiding spot behind the door. "Blood-traitors in my mistresses chambers! The shame, the shame!"
Gritting her teeth, Astoria pulled on the handle and swiped for Bonky's tea towel. He was too fast for her. With a loud pop! Bonky vanished into thin air.
"Sorry about that," Astoria grumbled, closing the door herself this time. "If it makes you feel any better, he'll barely serve me."
Fred and George both stared at her in silence, unnerved. Even the dog had ceased his growling.
"He deserved it!" Astoria snapped defensively, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks.
"Sorry," Fred muttered, breaking out of his trance. "You just reminded me of...someone."
"How did you two find me, anyway?" wondered Astoria, getting right down to business. Sandwiched together between the Tiffany lamp and her great uncle's sketch book of English birds, their faces were downright unnerving.
"We got your address from Percy," explained George, reaching out to rest a hand on the dog's massive head.
"Which wasn't easy," sniped Fred, betraying a hint of petulance. "Percy and Dad have had a massive row. The silly git's not speaking to any of us. I had to beg him for help. He's easier to get ahold of at work. Thankfully, we've been staying in London—"
Unprovoked, the dog let out a loud yip and Fred fell silent.
"You never told us you live with Belladonna Lestrange," murmured George, fidgeting with the clasp of a decorative scrimshaw box. His brow rumpled with child-like fascination as it popped open to reveal a set of gilded coasters.
At the mention of her aunt's name, the dog—a black Scottish Deerhound, perhaps?—stood up, let out soft, anxious growl and began to pace the carpet again.
"Easy, Snuffles..." cautioned George soothingly.
"I never mentioned it?" returned Astoria evasively, too uncomfortable to pay much attention to the dog's weird behavior. "Well, she's off at a charity luncheon, anyway, so we have the house to ourselves."
"Charity, eh?" grumbled Fred, surveying the room's finishings with an almost accusatory eye. "It's a wonder she doesn't just sponsor us. I don't know why you were so worried when we only owed Ragnuk a grand or so. You obviously could have paid if it had come to it..."
George cleared his throat, perhaps feeling that his brother's comment had been in bad taste. Astoria, for her part, could not help but feel a little angry.
While it was true that Belladonna's house was quite lovely (in truth, it was not even properly grand, but she could see how Fred might miss the nuance) it had also come down as an inheritance. The building and the antiques it contained were both historically valuable and worth a fair amount, but they had not been backed by actual fortune since her uncles had been imprisoned.
Belladonna was not poor, but her home was worth more than she was. If asked to pay off Astoria's outstanding goblin debt at a moment's notice, she would surely be forced to an auctioneers block to do so. Astoria highly doubted Belladonna's Gringotts vault could comfortably cover such a large sum at once, nor was she inclined to ever test her theory.
Fred did not know this, of course. Astoria could have more easily forgiven his lack of understanding, but his arrogance was downright aggravating.
"When is she getting back?" asked George, noticing that the dog was staring at Astoria with an almost human-like level of sentience and giving it a covert poke.
"Not before dinner, I expect," answered Astoria stiffly, dropping to her knees. "Here, puppy, puppy... Snuffles, was it?"
The dog squinted, studying her with dark, intelligent eyes.
"We've had a note from Ragnuk," continued Fred, distracting her before she could examine Snuffles further. "We've heard some things about him, too, come to think of it."
"Tell me what's going on, I'm listening," Astoria breathed. "Just keep your voice down. That elf is part pit bull, but he loves my aunt—he'll report anything he hears back to her."
"For a start, the idiot took some bloody big bets," said Fred. "Not just with us, either. He was as bad as Bagman, throwing numbers around without being able to back them up."
"I heard something like that, too," Astoria conceded, thinking of her conversation with Marcus Flint in the spring. "I didn't know what to make of it, really..."
"Yeah, well, get this," continued Fred restlessly. "Ragnuk lost both of his biggest bets the same way—because Harry and Cedric both tied for first place instead of one of them winning outright."
"We were obviously betting on Harry," said George, "but it turns out that Ragnuk was betting on Harry too, only with his other client. Do you follow?"
"I think so," said Astoria thoughtfully. "You're saying that the reason he owes us money is the same reason that someone else owes him gold?"
"Bingo," rejoined George, "which is why we reckon he isn't paying us. The whole thing is a stalemate. But see, Fred has this idea—"
"—I think it might be possible to get our money if we can convince the other person Ragnuk lost to that Harry technically won," finished Fred.
"But wouldn't that mean that Ragnuk would just end up paying us instead of them?" Astoria asked, her face twisting as she fought to process these details. "You're saying we should convince someone else to lose in order to let us win?"
"Well, yes," admitted Fred slowly. "Basically what it boils down to is that someone is going to get screwed here: us, Ragnuk, or his other client."
"And why would someone else want to give up their winnings?" Astoria tutted.
"They probably won't, but Ragnuk says he won't pay us otherwise," explained Fred. "The only way our claim has real legitimacy is if we can make Harry the 'official' winner of the tournament—and get Ragnuk out of his other deal."
"The plot thickens," Astoria murmured doubtfully. "Do you know who else Ragnuk owes all this money to?"
"Yeah," confirmed George. "That's the other part. Oliver Wood reckons it's some bloke over at the ministry—Rowle?"
"You're kidding!" Astoria burst. "Thorfinn Rowle, you mean? Cassandra's uncle?"
"Must be," Fred shrugged. "How many people have you ever met called 'Thorfinn'?"
Astoria raised a hand to her face, positively overcome with unexpected glee. "You're absolutely sure? How does Oliver know?"
"Sure as we can be," shrugged Fred. "Wood heard it from the old Slytherin seeker—Terrence Hibbs, remember him? Anyway, Terrence works for a bloke called Roland Yaxley now. Yaxley must know Rowle, because the whole thing trickled down through him. Wood's not the type to lie about that sort of thing—I reckon he's got the measure of it."
It was all Astoria could do to keep from cackling. The whole scenario defined 'grapevine gossip', but every bit of it added up so perfectly that it could only be true...
"What?" floundered Fred, confused by her expression of wild joy.
"Throfinn Rowle works with Hodrod," Astoria breathed, remembering Flint's warning on the balcony in London: Hodrod is practically funded by old man Rowle. I'm serious, he told me so himself.
"Cant be," scoffed George. "Hodrod and Ragnuk are the worst kind of rivals, you know that. He'd never have made a bet against him. You must have heard wrong."
"I don't think so," Astoria insisted, practically light-headed with victory. "Rowle and Hodrod were definitely business partners during the tournament. I heard it firsthand."
"What are we supposed to make of that?" frowned George. "This whole thing is so complicated it needs a flow-chart..."
"I think it means that Ragnuk owes us and Hodrod money," Astoria breathed, aghast.
All three of them fell into charged silence as they pondered the implication of this unexpected twist.
"Never!" drawled Fred, brightening considerably. "If that's true, Ragnuk's band of lunatics doesn't know about it. They'd have had him murdered—remember that time the whole lot of them hissed just because I said Hodrod's name?"
"I guess that would explain why Ragnuk would rather pay us the gold," murmured George.
"Oh, definitely," Astoria agreed dangerously. "If it's true, we've got Ragnuk by his dwarfy little britches."
"What about Rowle, though?" prompted George. "Have you ever met him? Do you think he's the type that might waive Ragnuk's debt?"
"No idea," Astoria admitted, privately feeling that, if Thorfinn was anything like Cassandra, the chances of this were slim to none. "I'll snoop around, though. See what I can find out."
"Your aunt probably knows him," suggested Fred, eyeing the decorative box. "You could always try to work him into a conversation."
Astoria smirked, resenting her weekend engagement somewhat less. "I think I can do better than that."
0o0
Quite apart from what Astoria had been expecting, Saturday morning arrived dark and overcast. A heavy lavender sky smelling strongly of lilacs loomed overhead, electric with the promise of rain.
This moody weather could not have come at a better time. All week, Astoria and Belladonna had been getting up at the crack of dawn, circling each other irritably to keep from melting. Now that the humidity had broken, Astoria was content to take a break from their routine. For most of the morning she lingered on the third floor, almost certain that Mrs. Rowle's tea would be cancelled.
But it was not to be. At nine thirty, Bonky arrived to bang on her bedroom wall, shouting Belladonna's messages through the keyhole.
"You is to be ready by noon!" he croaked threateningly. "My mistress will not be kept waiting by a lazy niece!"
Opening her closet, Astoria listened to him mutter and rave without responding, plotting her own scheme instead.
It did not seem wise to question Mr. Rowle directly about his gambling; at least, not yet. The best scenario she could imagine was one that would allow her to sit back, observe and maybe—if she was lucky—sneak in a private word with Marcus Flint should he happen to be there.
The wild chirping of the birds and crickets began to taper off as she finished her makeup, hushing for the oncoming storm.
Giving her side-swept bun a final pat, Astoria doubled checked the pearl buttons on the front of her dress. Sleeveless, flawlessly tailored and prim-looking, it was an outfit designed to make other people feel messy by comparison—a style Belladonna had long ago mastered—and one that Astoria wore well but uneasily. Perhaps because of this, the gloves became her favorite detail the moment she removed them from their packaging. Made out of white kid-leather, they fastened at her wrists by tiny golden clasps; more fairytale than butler.
Slamming her windows shut for the first time all season, Astoria proceeded downstairs. Here, it became clear that Belladonna's irritation remained unassuaged by the drop in temperature.
"Pay particular attention to Mrs. Rowle," she commanded, swooping in to nervously fasten a fly-away on Astoria's head. "Cassandra can scorn you all she likes, but by earning her aunt's favor, you'll soon make her desperate."
"I know," Astoria insisted, stubbornly re-loosening the lock of hair.
"No more than three sandwiches, either!" Belladonna went on, covering all of her cautionary bases. "This isn't the time or the place to exhibit a lack of control. Remember Foucault: Inspection functions ceaselessly. The gaze is alert everywhere."
"Oh, for God's sake, I'll eat what I like!" Astoria sniped, ducking under her aunt's arm toward the fireplace.
"So be it then!" Belladonna countered hotly. "If the fear of judgment can't stop you from glutting yourself, nothing will! When you start to look like your sister I'll have no sympathy for you!"
"What's wrong with Daphne?" Astoria scowled, feeling that Belladonna's dig hit well below the belt. "She walks for fun! She's fit!"
"If you say so, darling," sneered Belladonna, somehow coming across as even more savagely patronizing than usual, "but I'd say that poor girl is à la limite on the best of days! No one takes the time to prune her!"
It was a rare thing to see Belladonna so worked up, particularly in the absence of a crisis. What was wrong with her? Astoria held back, afraid of inflaming an already foul mood. Was it the prospect of seeing so many persnickety women that was eating at her?
"Oh, and speaking of self control," Belladonna continued dangerously, eyes sliding toward Astoria again, "I'm in no mood to humor your indulgences. If I catch you with anything stronger than tea in your hand, I'll break the offending fingers. Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly!" spat Astoria who, despite have no intentions of drinking, could not help but chafe violently. "You're fine with me raiding the liquor cabinet when you're out of town, but it's not alright when you think the Rowles might see—"
"If I catch one whiff of Pimms, you'll wish you had never been born!" snarled Belladonna, tossing a pinch of powder into the fire. "I won't have you napping before dinner!"
Seething, Astoria followed Belladonna through grate and out into a wide hall of cream-colored marble that rose into a tall vaulted ceiling. Catching sight of her image in a gilded mirror on the wall, Astoria hastily tried to wipe the sneer off of her face.
It was lighter here, but the storm was still rolling in; Astoria could see its grape-colored hulk crowding the horizon through the tall french windows. Lower down, a long, immaculate lawn rolled seamlessly into the distance, ending in the hedgerows of an old-fashioned maze that obscured any further view from sight.
The far off cry of seagulls offered a better locational clue, speaking of a proximity to the ocean. Backed up by the briny-sweet smell of surf mixed in with the scent of the fresh cut lawn, Astoria guessed that they were very near a beach. Carried in on a static breeze, this tempestuous air seemed to sweep away any trace body heat.
The marble hall soon gave way to a set of very stately sitting rooms. Lavishly decorated and draped in yellow, everything—from the rug to the sofa upholstery—was either spangled with blue and white flowers or adorned with a tassel, creating the strange impression of a cabinet lined with fine porcelain. To accommodate the promise of oncoming rain, tea had been laid out on a table facing the terrace. Here and there, women in pastel dresses laughed lightly and dabbed at their faces with white napkins; a chilly, serene frame of unwelcoming perfection.
This was the kind of place where a record of society's bad behavior was curated and stored. Astoria finally began to sympathize with her aunt's state of heightened tension. Belladonna had been quite right about the gloves: they were not Cassandra's idea of childish trap, they were requisite. Every female Astoria could see was wearing a pair.
"There it is," murmured Belladonna smugly, catching the look on Astoria's face. "I'm going to find Mrs. Rowle. You're always clever, but try to be charming."
"Uhuh," Astoria mumbled, sensing that if she did not move soon, she would run the risk of being intimidated...
"And don't forget—I'm not your father," Belladonna added in a threatening undertone. "I'll be watching."
Belladonna cut away, moving further down the yellow room. Unsure what else to do with herself, Astoria slunk through the foreign and unfriendly crowd toward the tea service.
Why—oh why—hadn't she had thought to include Tracey on their invitation? Since her induction into the sisterhood, Astoria hadn't attended a single one of these functions on her own. Without Tracey, she had no idea who to talk to; Cassandra didn't like her and half of the company was old enough to be her grandparents.
A city of tiered cake-stands cluttered the tea table's surface. There were carrot and raisin sandwiches, salmon club points, crab cakes and a decidedly soggy looking avocado on rye. Mountains of scones held sentry further down: walnut, cherry and lemon drizzle, all lashed with jam. Pots of clotted cream and fragrant strawberry conserve glittered in the purpling light, each bowl pierced by a tiny silver spoon like an arrow through the heart.
Astoria took it all in with a surprisingly hollow stomach, too self-conscious to take much interest in pastries, petit fours or biscuits. She seized a napkin anyway, however, eager to linger as long as she could.
Mrs. Rowle's selection of tea was no less impressive than the lunch, boasting pots of earl grey, peppermint, camomile and three separate breakfast blends. Pouring out a measure of something herbal, Astoria glanced at the forbidden sloe-gin royales and jewel bright mimosas, filled with a sudden, mischievous longing. A pitcher of iced-tea squatted behind a plate of ginger wafers; its card confirmed that it was indeed laced with about a galleon of the offending Pimms.
Shrill, familiar laughter drew Astoria gaze back toward the living room. The tell-tale wail had come from Pansy Parkinson. Lounging on the end of Blaise Zabini's buttercream-colored couch, she appeared as excitable as always. And in the middle of their circle, gesturing with a coveted gin cocktail, was Draco Malfoy.
Fucking damnit.
Astoria's brain sparked and ignited. Belladonna had made it sound as though Lucius had already left the country—what was Draco doing here? Astoria hadn't even considered the possibility of running into him because she had not known that the threat existed.
A quick scan of the immediate rooms told her that Lucius was not to be found in any of them. Perhaps Draco and his mother had lingered behind for Cassandra's departure? It made sense: they were related, and this was really more of a ladies event... Draco broke off in the middle of his joke, eyes dancing lazily toward the cake stands, where they caught on Astoria and sharpened.
Gritting her teeth, Astoria splashed more tea into her cup and pretended she hadn't noticed him.
"Astoria!" squealed a voice nearer at hand.
It was Katherine MacDougal, dressed in such a cacophony of frilly layers that Astoria almost wondered if she had replaced Astoria as Cassandra's newest mark.
"Kitty," Astoria murmured, busying herself with the tea.
Under different circumstances, Katherine's enthusiasm might have been enough to tempt Astoria into latching on. Surely following Kitty about was better than standing alone like a dolt? Today, however, Katherine MacDougal was a one way ticket into Pansy's circle. The sooner Astoria was rid of her, the better...
"Can you believe Cassandra won't be coming back next year?" prattled Kitty, helping herself to a tall stack of wafers that Belladonna would not have approved of.
"I—"
Kitty threaded her arm through Astoria's—something she had never done before in her life—and began to pull her away from the table.
"I really think she was so good about Tony at her last party!" Kitty continued. "Cassandra knew it was all that wretched Patil girl's fault—you remember. Lord, sometimes I forget that Cassandra didn't always go to Hogwarts."
"Mhmm," Astoria agreed, realizing that resistance was futile. "I know exactly what you mean. Ten minutes alone with her feels like an eternity."
"So true!" trilled Kitty, thoroughly missing Astoria's point.
"Careful, Greengrass," called Draco loudly. "Someone might think you're trying for an insult."
Draco had been watching them covertly, but he broke formation to lean over the edge of his chair now, eager to catch their attention before Kitty barreled past. On the couch, Pansy turned toward Flora and let out a low-key, long suffering sigh. Flora giggled, smothering the sound with her gloved hand.
"I didn't think you'd show up here, Greengrass," leered Blaise, noticing Astoria at last. "Shame you didn't bring Davis with you..."
"Belladonna's idea, obviously," returned Astoria stonily, unwilling to listen to Blaise talk about Tracey.
"Draco!" called Pansy, already tired of allowing Astoria to be the center of attention. "Cassandra wants your mother to tell her when Mrs. Tipman arrives."
Draco shrugged.
"Tippy's coming, is she?" Astoria murmured, half tempted to guffaw. In truth, Astoria had not seen the woman in years, but she could not imagine time had improved her.
"Of course she is," sniffed Pansy triumphantly. "She's here to meet Cassandra. Nervous, are you?"
"Not really," sneered Astoria, making no effort to be overly civil.
"You don't like Mrs. Tippman?" asked Kitty, all surprise. "I've always thought she was a darling!"
"Astoria certainly doesn't feel that way," insisted Pansy triumphantly, "she shot someone in front of her."
"I—what?" mouthed Kitty uncertainly.
"Yeah, yeah," said Draco dismissively, already bored. "Everyone's heard that story, Pansy."
Pansy tapered off at once and it took all of Astoria's years of accumulated dislike not to feel a little bit sorry for her.
"I wonder what she'll make of the tragedy at the Tournament," Pansy mused. Her eyes darted sidelong toward Draco, no doubt keen to hear what he had to say.
"That's easy enough—just take a look at whoever she shows up with," snorted Astoria, not wanting to listen to Malfoy go on about the Third Task again.
"Why should that matter?" snapped Pansy.
"Everyone knows Tippy hates owning up to her own opinions," Astoria explained scornfully. "She'll bring someone else along to say them for her. She always does."
"Sounds to me like you don't know what you're talking about," sniffed Pansy. "That woman single-handedly runs half of the charities in England, Astoria. You're really going to sit here and say that she's hostile?"
"She is hostile—and boring," Astoria clapped back. "Those charities are the only thing she does like to talk about."
Malfoy snorted, torn between siding with Pansy's more traditional opinion and Astoria's decidedly funnier desire to lampoon.
"Look!" declared Pansy, gesturing toward the marble entryway. "There she is now and she's with your mother, Flora. Let's go meet them."
Pansy shot Astoria what she probably imagined was a silencing glance and dragged Flora up off the couch.
"Hah," Astoria chuckled darkly, enjoying the image of Alectra Carrow in villainous storm-light. "It'll be the guillotine, then..." As if on cue, the first clap of thunder rumbled overhead. Draco shot Astoria an impressed look, perhaps suspecting that she had somehow summoned it.
"Aren't you forgetting your mother, Draco?" asked Blaise, re-interjecting himself. "Didn't Cassandra want you to find her?"
"Cassandra can do it herself," scoffed Draco, propping his drink up on his knee. "It's not my job to do her grunt work."
Astoria took a small sip of her luke-warm tea, wondering if she ought to slip away while the getting was good. The only trouble was, there did not seem to be any other place for her to go—almost everyone in the room outranked her by age and importance. On top of that, Draco seemed to be the only one keen to break away from a cliquey conversation long enough to make eye contact with her.
Without Tracey, Theodore or the cadre of Beauxbatons students she had grown to depend on, Astoria's odds of getting through the afternoon without embarrassing her aunt depended heavily on her ability to fit in. As long as Pansy was around, Katherine was a poor mark—she didn't have the force of will to withstand an attack. But Draco...
"Drinking tea, Greengrass?" leered Blaise, carelessly switching targets. "What's the matter, afraid of offending Tippy again by going for the hard stuff?"
"I've been banned from the bar," answered Astoria, ignoring the fact that it was barely one o'clock and her choice of beverage was by far the more acceptable one. "My aunt made that perfectly clear. I think she's trying to strike a difference between herself and my father—the responsible guardian and the bad one."
Draco laughed appreciatively, obviously thinking of the fight he had witnessed between George and Belladonna.
Biting her lip and trying not to draw any notice, Astoria casually leaned into the side of his chair. There could be no denying the fact that she was swimming in a sea of false-friends and disinterested elders. In all reality, the smartest thing to do was probably to stay exactly where she was. That way, at least, Belladonna would not be able to accuse her of refusing to socialize. If Mr. Rowle happened to draw near, all the better.
A house elf swooped by to collect Astoria's empty teacup. In response, Astoria reached out and slipped Draco's drink from his hand, stealing a covert sip. Sorry, Auntie. I'm playing my odds.
"I'm surprised your mother didn't say the same, Draco," drawled Blaise, eyes trained mischievously on the rim of their now-shared glass. "I've never met anyone who hates a scene more than she does."
"That's because your mother loves one," Astoria murmured, committing to her new plan with something close to relish. Kitty giggled haltingly, sensing that a dart had been thrown but too silly to know why.
"Yeah?" returned Blaise coldly. "What makes you think that?"
"Call it a sixth sense," Astoria smirked, returning the gin softly to Malfoy's hand.
"Really," drawled Draco, irresistibly smug. "Everyone knows your mother lives for theatrics, Blaise. There's no use playing offended. Besides—" he adjusted slightly in his seat, making sure that the hand his glass was in remained loose and prone on his armrest, "—I'm not stupid. No matter how many I have, I always tell my mother it was one. She never notices."
"Why do I feel like your father doesn't buy that?" drawled Blaise, keen to pop a hole in Draco's 'cool-guy careless' act. "You toe the line with him."
"Do you often get drunk in front of your father, Draco?" asked Astoria challengingly. "I'm sure I've never seen you do it."
Blaise's narrowed his eyes at her. This made twice now she had stood up for Draco, and it was enough to indicate that an angle was being played.
"Obviously not," sneered Draco, prickling.
Safe in the knowledge that she was too far behind Draco for him to see her, Astoria raised both of her hands to imitate little devil horns made a face at Blaise.
"Tuh—" Blaise burst, choking unexplainably, unprepared for her childish outrageousness.
Astoria's vision swam with amusement, but Cassandra had come through to meet her guests so Astoria's attention shifted toward Tippy Tippman.
"Nonsense, you sweet thing—I'm very happy to meet you! Your aunt is a great favorite of mine!" Tippy boomed brusquely, flashing her thin, lifeless smile. "No, no, it was no bother at all! It takes more than a storm to keep me abed... but what a perfect opportunity to show off your lovely gardens—all gone to waste!"
Tippy slapped her umbrella into Alectra Carrow's chest. Even from across the hall, Astoria thought she could see her mascara turning to goop. As long as Cassandra kept her sharp mouth in check, Tippy was going to positively love her.
"I've always abhorred waste," Tippy continued, ample bosom trembling at the thought. "Why don't you and Miss Parkinson take me for a quick stroll before the rain comes down? You don't mind, Alectra?"
Yes, Astoria privately urged them, go.
Cassandra ushered Tippy and Pansy toward the terrace and Astoria's whole body sagged with relief. If she was really lucky, the whole lot of them would end up drowned in the maze when the storm hit.
"What's wrong with you?" snapped Draco, reclaiming Astoria attention. Afraid she was being yelled at, it took a moment for her to realize that Blaise was the offender—he was still squinting at Astoria and Draco was rapidly losing patience with him.
Smothering a laugh, Astoria leaned forward until she was brushing against Draco's arm. 'You suck!' she mouthed gleefully, certain that Blaise would not be able to react without making himself look schizophrenic.
"Merlin," scoffed Blaise at last, letting out a delirious laugh, "there's nothing you love more than an icy pain in the ass, is there Malfoy?"
Tired of sparring, Blaise finished his iced tea. He stood up just as the first roar of rain came down; pitter-pats of water flecking the windows and whispering softly against the lush turf.
"I hope Cassandra doesn't get wet!" chirped Kitty brightly, moving aside so that Blaise could reach the tea service. "I'm sure she wishes she had one of those parasols from my party right now..."
Astoria eyed the downpour as it thickened with sea mist outside the long panes of glass. Pansy and Cassandra would not stay outside long in that.
"Is Mr. Rowle here, Draco?" asked Astoria.
"Huh?" he grunted, still peering after Blaise suspiciously. "Yeah, I think so. He was with the Yaxleys earlier. Where are you going?"
Astoria had regained her feet again. Draco's shoulders twitched instinctually, following the movement.
"I don't know," Astoria admitted, noticing for the first time that Belladonna had throughly disappeared. You'll be watching, will you? What a load of rubbish...
"It's kind of dark in here," observed Kitty. "My party had perfect sun, you know."
"Are we close to the ocean?" asked Astoria, privately agreeing. All of the yellow couches and drapes were beginning to glow in the half-light—a surefire sign of early evening.
"Yeah, to the south," confirmed Draco, vacating his own seat. "You can see it from the library. Here, finish this, I'll get another."
He passed Astoria his glass. Glancing both ways like a common criminal, Astoria finished off the last two sips, praying that Belladonna would remain tied up in the woodwork.
"Seriously?" Draco drawled, amused by her paranoia.
0o0
Kitty wanted to stroll, so Astoria joined her in taking a lap around the room, munching cookies off her napkin as they went. Quick to spot their aimlessness, Draco took it upon himself to usher them around.
This turned out to be a blessing and a curse in equal measure; his presence legitimized them to the point that Astoria felt comfortable loitering near Mrs. Rowle's expensive antiques, but it also drew attention from withered octogenarians. Indeed, almost everyone who stopped them did so because of Draco. Narcissa was clearly a favorite among many of these aging dowagers, but Draco himself did not put much effort into charming them, so they rarely stayed long.
Draco was a pale comparison to Theodore in terms of a reliable safety net, but what he lacked in security, he more than made up for by shamelessly embracing the human love of gossip. Finally, after having reached the edge of every open room, they fell to loitering about in corners.
"Of course, the Runcorns and Orpingtons don't get on," he drawled, covertly passing Astoria his drink. "But then, Father doesn't think much of Runcorn either. They're only third generation purebloods, you know—I don't even think they've been around long enough to have a family tree."
"Didn't the Runcorns just have a baby?" asked Kitty, who seemed to have no interest in anything more scandalous or debasing than a wedding announcement.
"Yeah and they've named him something preposterous," Draco jeered. "Langhorne, maybe? Can you imagine—Langhorne Runcorn? I think I'd throw myself off a cliff."
Astoria laughed, verging on a state of precarious contentment.
"Of course, no one knows who his wife's people are—she's Irish I think," Draco went on, gesturing subtly toward the Runcorns, who were both present and standing with Alistair Yaxley. "Mrs. Yaxley seems to like her, though. Mother says the Yaxleys have been taking the Runcorns around to all the clubs."
"Alistair's wife likes anything he tells her to," Astoria snorted, passing the glass back to Draco. "She's been with him for the money since day one."
"Oh, Astoria!" chided Kitty, a little uncomfortable spilling the tea on people who were obviously well-respected. "You don't know that! I think Alistair's rather handsome for a man of his age..."
"Ugh," Astoria scoffed, subconsciously taking on the mantle of her aunt's prejudice. "If that position didn't come with a salary, no one would apply for it! Yaxley's a regular dungeon master—I've never heard him string more than two sentences together."
"The way he speaks makes everything sound like a threatening question," added Draco delightedly.
"Oh God, he does do that!" Astoria wheezed, replicating Yaxley's accent with chilling accuracy. "Astor-e-ahhhh?"
She had consumed too much gin, that much was becoming clear. If even Kitty, a natural born follower, was loosing sway, it was time to get her head on straight. Belladonna's annoyance was bad enough; the last thing she needed was for Mrs. Rowle to decide that she had been a junior lush over brunch.
"What are you two laughing about?" demanded Blaise Zabini, reappearing around the other side of raised globe stand. "I can hear you snickering in the hall."
"Poor Mr. Yaxley!" tutted Kitty, almost relived to tattle. "They're being very arch. Astoria thinks his wife doesn't love him."
The bluntness of this pronouncement immediately pushed Draco over the edge again.
"Easy, tiger," jeered Blaise, conveniently positioning himself in a way that forced Astoria out onto the carpet. "Pansy and Cassandra have come in," he continued with a smirk. "Soaking wet of course, they got caught in the downpour. Tippman's on the verge of hysterics."
Kitty let out a wail of regret and immediately shot across the room, eager to towel off Pansy's ponytail.
"And she's off!" jeered Blaise, tracking Kitty's progress until she safely disappeared into the marble hall with a final flare of dress frill. "Well, I suppose I ought to check on mother. Poor thing—Belladonna found her ages ago, Astoria."
A swift silence descended, filled with an awareness of the fact the she was alone with Draco for the first time since being attacked by Moody.
"I can't decide what I hate more," Astoria finally sighed, pushing away from the globe, "Blaise—or Kitty's dress?"
"You were frilly for Cassandra's last party," Draco snorted, edging along the line of windows behind her.
"Somewhere between a mountain of tulle and self-truth lies the better part of decorum, Draco," Astoria cautioned, close to cracking herself up again. "Blaise was born an asshole, but Kitty chose that dress."
A flash of forked lightning gutted the room, washing everything with electric brilliance.
"Keep walking," commanded Draco, urging her past the last window. "Through that door—there's a view of the water in there."
He took hold of a handle they had passed twice already and turned it. Astoria hesitated, wary of trespassing, but he held the door with his shoulder until she followed anyway.
Inside, a decidedly private-looking study of rich mahogany replaced the swaths of yellow silk. Bookshelves the size of walls loomed between the windows, twice as tall as Astoria and three times as wide. Beyond these windows—facing the opposite end of the house—was a view to rival a Cooke painting.
Waves the size of mountains crashed against white cliffs; salt water spray stuttered the air like clouds. And above, great forks of lightning formed varicose patterns against the wine colored sky. Mesmerized, Astoria crept forward, hoping that Draco's relative familiarity with the house would prevent anyone from becoming angry if they were caught.
"Have you ditched Nott yet?" asked Draco rather abruptly, slouching against a bookcase to watch her face.
"No," sighed Astoria, unable to tear her eyes off of the view, "and I'm not going to, either."
"I don't know why," Draco scoffed. "He's obviously decided to switch teams for Patil. You'd be better off dropping him now—chuck him before he can chuck you."
"No one's chucking anybody," returned Astoria, unsure what she had done to provoke so much unsolicited advice. "If he wants the Ravenclaws, that's his business. I'm not going to trick him into liking me best."
"Where does Nott gets off, anyway?" scoffed Draco, narrowing his eyes. "He was practically a leper before you took him on. He should be groveling for forgiveness, not off chasing an uppity bookworm."
"Do you think she's pretty?" asked Astoria, reminding herself irresistibly of Theodore's own line of questioning on the train.
"No," jeered Draco, "I think her teeth look like they've had a row."
Astoria choked on a mouthful of gin fizz, secretly well-pleased by this even if it was hilariously petty—and largely untrue; Padma was actually quite lovely and her teeth showed no signs of a struggle.
"Liar," said Astoria accusingly. "Padma's gorgeous—and even if she wasn't, she's Theodore's idea of clever."
"Sure, if he doesn't mind a shrill nag," sneered Draco. "Although I suppose that's what you get when you decide a Half-Blood is the prettiest in the year."
"Oh yeah?" quirked Astoria slowly, repressing a fat smirk. "Who is the prettiest in the year, then?"
Draco's grey eyes twitched toward hers. "Are you kidding," he drawled, unable to mask his pink-faced amusement. "Fishing for compliments?"
When Astoria did not reply, he let out a loose scoff and reached for the drink, determined to escape by distraction. Astoria pulled the glass back, dangling it just out of reach.
"I suppose you want me to say you?" Draco tested
Astoria's smirk leveled up, evolving from mischievous to down-right evil. Arching her back slightly, she pulled the glass still higher.
It was the sort of thing that reinforced Padma's point of view, but she couldn't quite seem to care. Theodore would have been highly annoyed with her, of course, but Draco seemed to have more room for indulgence when it came to crimes of vanity.
"I could just take it from you," Draco observed softly.
"Think so?" Astoria taunted.
Draco feinted lazily, shoulder jerking forward, but Astoria's long-latent archery precision was more than enough to prevent the glass from ever touching his fingers.
Whip-crack fast, his other arm darted out, seizing Astoria by the opposite elbow. Unprepared and more than a little aware of her own ridiculousness, Astoria stumbled forward, giggling obnoxiously.
"Give it up, Greengrass," drawled Draco warmly, at this point managing control of both of her wrists.
"No!" Astoria declared through a peal of laughter, grabbing at his shirt. "Not until I have been named the fairest of the year!"
Draco snorted gracelessly, swaying to keep Astoria from wriggling loose. She could feel his rapid and faintly excited breathing near her ear.
"Tell me I'm pretty," Astoria begged wickedly, standing up on her tip-toes to stop him from reclaiming the glass.
"Or what?" Draco drawled, fully pinning her free hand against her side.
"I'll bite you if you don't let go," Astoria smirked.
"Do it," scoffed Draco breathlessly, and while he undoubtedly meant this as a joke, there could be no missing the hint of a real offer in his tone.
"Astoria," cracked a cold, female voice.
She shot up straight so violently that Draco lost his grasp, overcorrecting the glass to stop herself from spilling on the floor. Pansy was standing in the doorway, her expression unreadable, her jaw very square.
"Your aunt is looking for you," she finished flatly.
0o0
I think I'm traveling for a bit over memorial day weekend (so sorry if this post is a little rough on editing), but otherwise, the next chapter should be up on schedule, guys!
Fast Notes:
1. I enjoy Belladonna's presence more than I probably should (which is why she is rarely cast as an actual villain) but honestly, can we all agree not to take any diet tips from her? Please eat more than three finger sandwiches, friends!
2. The Rowles' country home is sort of styled after Kingston Lacy house in Dorset. The real house is not near the water, but I did borrow the amazing gardens and the yellow interior. Feel free to look it up for real life peek if thats your thing!
2 1/2. I stole a Gossip Girl quote in this. I wish I were more ashamed.
3. Next chapter will finish up the tea and send Astoria off on her travels.
Reviews are just the greatest!